


dashing through the snow

by Nabielka



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Partitions of Poland RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2810843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The most terrifying moment for Stanisław came one day when they were flying along in the sleigh and one of the runners hit a boulder." - Adam Zamoyski, <i>The Last King of Poland</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dashing through the snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



> Title is from the song 'Jingle Bells'.  
> Wesołych Świąt!

St. Petersburg, 1757

 

It was difficult to watch; in bed she would not stop moving, even at court when she stood there physically unmoving, her face so perfectly still as to resemble stone, there was a sense of energy that seemed to be coiled around her, as though in any instant she would whirl around, or would speak, and all around would fall silent.

But now there she lay, so terribly still. He had swept off his thick over-coat to cover her with, and though his cheeks were burning with cold, he did not feel its loss at all. Instead, he was deeply conscious of the sweat pooling over his skin, settling over his forehead, in the crook of his elbow. For it could have all been over.

For an instant, when blind instinct had propelled him off the sleigh so quickly he had almost slipped on the ice, and fallen down onto his knees uncaring of the snow to touch her, he had feared it were so. She had lain so motionless on the snow that it was frightful to look upon her, like a fallen doll dropped by a child mid-ride and soon forgotten. But she was still so warm to the touch, a pulse fluttering under her skin as he had pushed aside several layers of clothing to search for it, throwing his own gloves so carelessly to the side so that now his knuckles were reddened with the frost.

He had not been aware of the breath he was holding until he had released it, but the rapid change made him choke. For he had feared her dead, to the extent that any thought had been possible at all in that brief moment of terror between Catherine beside him, the quiet joy in her voice, and then suddenly a sudden stop, a bounce, and her gone. He had scooped her up in his arms, her hair falling down over his arm, and carried her back, and lain her so that her weight continued to be supported by him, and wished again that he had taken a carriage, or, had taken her back to his apartment again, had given her the book he had ordered for her, to have her smile and kiss him for it, and to take her to his bed there. But she had wanted a sleigh ride, and he would have her be as happy as he could make her..

But still she lay so still; when he looked down blue veins tangled over her eyelids like vines, and her face seemed vaguely greyish, so terribly vulnerable. They rode slower now, of course, for he could not risk another such incident. In that short unthinking instant some small part of him had remembered the God of his mother, beyond formulaic phases, beyond the prayers of his childhood, into some sort of deeper faith, for Catherine could not die, could not suffer any injury that would not pass when they arrived inside to the warmth, for they could not risk a doctor, could not risk discovery beyond those few who already knew, dancing ever closer to the precipice beyond which lay suffering and ruin.

He was not cut out to be a martyr; for long hours, for days on end, he forgot the very existence of Siberia, could not be sure, as many of the other gentlemen of the court were, that he would be willing to suffer the knout for anybody at all. Besides, he did not react well to danger; the stress of near discovery outside the palace made him almost ill, but always the memory of her would return him there.

He could not have survived her loss, he thought, smoothing the powdered hair back that her hat did not cover, that had become matted by the ice and the snow and the dirt on the ground. It melted on his fingers, the cold stinging. He knew this, and knew it too not to be mere sentiment, though he could not have said in that cold night where the line between his feelings and his safety lay. Sentiment, his uncle had said, derisively, too much sentiment. But his was not a nature which would allow undiluted cynicism.

Shifting her arms a little, he slid one of his hands into her muff to clutch at her gloved ones. The other he still held around her, so that she could not fall without bringing him down too, though it was so cold he could have barely moved it had he wished to.

Her fingers twitched a little, he thought. He said, “Sophie?”

She stirred a little against him, a tiny movement of her shoulder, then took a sharper draw of breath and opened her eyes. She blinked twice, hard, and pulled herself out of his support, shifting to sit up more firmly. He let his arm fall down, but still he kept it there, between her body and the fall. She did not remark upon it.

Instead she said, “My head hurts,” quietly. Then, as if she had not intended to remark upon it, she shook her head a little and said, in a very measured voice, “it is no matter. Take me home.” It was her court voice, the one she might have used to speak to a servant at a ball. Unbidden, he felt irritation rise, for he had been so terrified, on his knees in the snow, and despite his personal ambitions he loved her very much.

But he said only, “I am.”

She gave a slight nod, and moved her hands within her muff, so that one of them clasped his, and he forgave her everything. She had suffered herself, she had not had his terror, but she was in pain, and besides, he felt that he would be able to forgive her anything. “Call a doctor,” he advised, “and say only that you hurt your head.”

Her little mouth pursed, she said, “Send Sir Charles’ physician tonight, then. I would not risk calling for the Empress’,” then, her face suddenly rather hard, added, “though he probably already knows. When she was ill, they were too friendly to you.”

He squeezed her hand, and replied reassuringly, “It was a kindness towards the ambassador and his court, nothing more,” though he had noted it also, then, “but you will see him?”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh, “though it is nothing,” and turned her face away, though she did not remove her hand, and they drove on. 


End file.
